


Drink to Forget

by STOPiamreading



Series: Drink to Forget [1]
Category: Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series), YouTube- Markiplier, markiplier - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst and Romance, Best Friends, Childhood Friends, Complicated Relationships, Crying, Damien is a fourth wheel, Drunkenness, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Guilt, Intoxication, M/M, Male Friendship, Mark Fischbach Egos, Men Crying, Out of Character, POV Male Character, POV Third Person, Past Lives, Pre-Who Killed Markiplier?, Prohibition Era, Roaring 20s, This is first time I wrote Damien and the Colonel!, William is real drunk, fear of loneliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23509015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/STOPiamreading/pseuds/STOPiamreading
Summary: Damien waits. He starts pacing the foyer with his hands behind his back, the quick sounds of his footsteps on stone almost echoing through the hallway.The Mayor hates how nervous he was about something so mundane and he feels guilty for craving companionship yet being too weak to actively ask for it. The silent house felt too big for Damien. But a visit from “the Colonel” always seemed to fill the place with more than enough noise for it to feel livable.That was ultimately the only reason the newly appointed mayor went through the effort of securing so much alcohol; how else would he be able to “lure” the self-proclaimed rapscallion over?[This is the less gay, more angst version.]
Relationships: Celine | The Seer & Damien | The Mayor & Wilford Warfstache | William J. Barnum | The Colonel, Celine | The Seer & Damien | The Mayor (Who Killed Markiplier?), Celine | The Seer/Mark Fischbach, Celine | The Seer/Wilford Warfstache | William J. Barnum | The Colonel, Damien | The Mayor & Wilford Warfstache | William J. Barnum | The Colonel, Damien | The Mayor/Wilford Warfstache | William J. Barnum | The Colonel
Series: Drink to Forget [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1691536
Comments: 10
Kudos: 19





	1. Drink with Me

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of the text will overlap from the previous one, just so you know. This was the original work.  
> So I originally wrote this for a creative writing assignment and I liked the idea, so I added more stuff to make it Damien and William. If things seem out of character, that's probably why. Instead of a simple love triangle/square, Damien's problem is his crippling fear of losing his oldest friends.  
> Timeline: takes place shortly before Celine and Mark's wedding. Damien just became Mayor, William is still Colonel, and Y/N hasn't become District Attorney yet (I don't know how the series of events for WKM happened: what year is it? When did William work for Mark? When was William a Private?). Also, I made it more Prohibition-era and unnecessarily detailed so even if you didn't know the characters you could imagine them.

Damien straightens his crisp black suit in front of the ornate foyer mirror. The straight edges of the fitted formal attire, the blinding white bow tie and Oxford shirt under his low-cut waistcoat, and the pinch of his shined dress shoes is a familiar feeling. On his right lapel is a simple white boutonniere and in his left breast pocket is a bleached pocket square. Above the pocket is a black pin in ribbon with a cursive “Mayor” printed in the center. Damien stares at it, tempted to toss the large newly made eyesore across the room. He hates having to broadcast his status on his chest like a target, as if that would do anything to help the people of the city. The only thing he got from it was more people trying to bribe him into turning a blind eye to their speakeasies and bathtub gin. Damien didn’t need a bribe to agree to that. After all, his twin sister was formerly a flapper, and he knew that there were more pressing issues than a few people wanting to have fun. 

Damien gazes at his black and white reflection, avoiding eye contact with his mirror image. His hands clasp repetitively in front of them, resisting the urge to fix his gelled back hair. He glances at the front door anxiously for an unexpected old friend (who visited unannounced so often it became expected). The police recently dissolved a dangerous bootlegging operation, and after a few well-placed calls, the fresh cases of liquor made their way to Damien’s wine cellar. He was sure that his drinking buddy heard about it already. The Mayor trusted that his friend would find his way to the house sometime soon, rather than directly inviting him over.

Damien waits. He starts pacing the foyer with his hands behind his back, the quick sounds of his footsteps on stone almost echoing through the hallway. The Mayor hates how nervous he was about something so mundane and he feels guilty for craving companionship yet being too weak to actively ask for it. The silent house felt too big for Damien. It was lonely after his sister moved out of their family estate to live with her fiancé. But a visit from “the Colonel”, as his friends called him, always seemed to fill the place with more than enough noise for it to feel livable. That was ultimately the only reason the newly appointed mayor went through the effort of securing so much alcohol; how else would he be able to “lure” the self-proclaimed rapscallion over?

The front door is rapped four times impatiently from the outside in a distinctive pattern that Damien knew all too well. He races to the door like a child running into the living room on Christmas Day; the Mayor internally chastises himself for doing so. Damien takes a deep breath before putting his hand on the doorknob and unlocking it. He is greeted by a familiar boisterous voice.

“Damien, you old rascal! How have you been? How’s the new job? Wait don’t tell me; it’s boring isn’t it? Actually do tell, I’m curious. Bully, the pin looks spiffy too, it’s real nice on you!”

Compared to Damien, William is saturated with color. He wore his khaki safari uniform all the time as an excuse to tell and retell the harrowing tale of how he allegedly defended a lion attack with his bare hands. The tan outfit is rough around the edges and frayed in some places, but lovingly washed and cared for. It smells like a pine forest, but the sharp, lingering scent of gunpowder never seemed to wash off no matter how many times he tried. There are pins with red and white stripes on the right side and a metallic insignia on the left of an eagle with outstretched wings reflecting his status as Colonel. Tucked under his chin is a bright crimson cravat that almost completely submerges the William’s neck in fabric. His bushy mustache does little to hide the sideways grin always present on his face, nor his booming voice and laugh that made everything sound like a joke. Perched on the bridge of his nose is a thick pair of circular spectacles with a triple lens loupe attached to the right side (purely decorative: “to add character” he says).

Damien closes the door behind the talkative man, his apprehension instantly melting away with a gentle smile rising to his face. William, like a liquid, instantly fills whatever space he’s in with exuberant energy. But there was no doubt that he was sometimes a bit _much_ for the Mayor to handle. He struggles to answer the barrage of questions coherently. 

“Hello Colonel, pleasure to see you again. To answer you, I’m well enough. The job is as I expected it to be, mayhaps a bit more titular than I’d like it to be. I trust that you didn’t just come for the alcohol in my possession?”

“Now, now, is that any way to treat a friend? And how many times do I need to tell you, there’s no need for formalities. 20 years we’ve known each other and you still can’t remember my moniker?” the Colonel exclaims with a laugh. 

He tosses his safari hat onto the wood coat stand by the door, exposing a wavy mass of black hair. The hat misses and falls to the floor, but he doesn’t motion to pick it up. Damien exhales in a soft sigh and hangs it up properly.

“My apologies, William,” the Mayor answers, albeit awkwardly.

“Come now, you could do better than that,” William replies with a mock tone of exasperation. 

Damien sighs. This happened every time they saw each other, which was borderline every week. He couldn’t help it: it had been ingrained into his brain since childhood to use titles and with his new public service job it further solidified into habit.

“Will?”

“Attaboy! See, was that so hard?”

After exchanging pleasantries and moving their operation to the living room, they finally reach the real purpose of the Colonel’s visit.

“ _Sooo_ , Damien,” William drawls, slinging an arm over the Mayor’s shoulders in his usual breach of other people’s personal space (something he seemed to have no concept of), “A lil’ birdie told me that you got a fresh supply of booze. Care to share a bit with your bestest friend?”

Damien pauses as if to consider it for a while, but the both of them knew what the ultimate answer was. 

“Very well. But I must insist on confiscating your gun. You nearly shot me the last time,” the Mayor says in a voice that can only be described as world-weary. 

“Really? I don’t remember that,” the Colonel mumbles. 

He cocks an eyebrow questioningly with a frown, handing Damien the empty pistol without hesitation. The Mayor takes it solemnly, holding the weapon an uncomfortable distance away from his body and drops it unceremoniously into a random drawer. He feels his heartbeat pound faster at the slip up and he resists the temptation to wring his sweaty hands.

“That’s most likely because you were intoxicated. You just chased me around the house with your firearm, probably thinking I was some enemy from your army days. Don’t worry, Will, nothing was hurt or broken. Besides, that was the most exercise I did in a long time,” Damien reassures the Colonel with an easy smile. 

He hates how easily the lie comes out of his mouth: the perks of being a politician. William’s brows seem to furrow even more at this and he cards his fingers through his hair, unintentionally making it look more scruffy.

“Damien, I’m really sorry, I had no idea. Why… why didn’t you tell me sooner?” the Colonel wonders aloud in concern. 

The Mayor is taken aback at how the tables had turned; usually _he_ was the one who worried over the frequent shenanigans William got into. He feels uncomfortable about the change in roles. Remorse knots in his chest but he manages to push through it.

“Calm your worries, it’s fine, no harm done. I just wanted to forget about it and put it behind us,” Damien asserts with a practiced half laugh, waving his hand dismissively. He quickly changes the subject: “If alcohol is what you came for then I’m afraid you’ll have to drink alone for a while. It seems that I’ve neglected a stack of papers to sign and there’s also that crime ring that-.”

The Colonel groans like a pouty child. Damien’s workaholism seemed to get worse as time went on, as though he was trying to bury themself in it.

“You ought to kick up your heels a little! How’d you fancy a drink with me first and then getting to work? There’s no point in drinking if there’s nobody to drink with! But if I’m interrupting you, I could go to any ol’ joint if you want,“ William burst in a jovial tone, gesturing his hands broadly. 

“No! No,” the Mayor replies too quickly, grabbing the Colonel’s arm, “Stay. I’d hate to be alone. I’ll have _a_ glass, though I have no intention of becoming inebriated.” 

Damien notices his initiation of physical contact and hastily moves away. He holds his hands behind his back as if attempting to maintain his composure through a powerful stance. William shakes his head, mentally berating the Mayor’s self-consciousness but says nothing. Instead he links Damien’s arm in his own and leads the Mayor down the familiar path to the wine cellar.

“‘Course, of course,” the Colonel says as an afterthought.


	2. Intoxicating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're drunk.

They were both drunk.

A few hours later and the two of them still hadn’t left the living room they migrated back to with glasses and bottles in hand. Heavy sun-bleached red drapes hide the large window panes and nighttime atmosphere behind them. Suspended from the ceiling, jutting out of the walls, and in the form of ornate lamps, a warm glow permeates the house as Damien hates being in the dark. There is a closed baby grand piano to the side that had been untouched for years. Damien has unpleasant memories of toiling on it for hours at a time as a child under the strict tutelage of his parents. Even so, the surface of the instrument is free of dust and still in tune. On one wall there is a stone fireplace with wood, but no fire. The temperate weather of early spring made it unnecessary, but even if it was needed, the Mayor had no idea how to start it. Opposite of the fireplace is a velvet fainting couch of dark wood, courtesy of Celine after she left the childhood home. It was a stark contrast from the muted tone of the rest of the living room and its pale yellow walls, but Damien kept it to appease his domineering older sister; it was also William’s favorite place to sit. The end tables interspaced between the chairs and the low table in the center of the ring of seats held short stacks of books, all at various stages of reading and subjects. That was the only sign of Damien using the room other than for when the Colonel visited. A faded Persian rug fills the middle of the hardwood floor and the walls are bare except for the mirror hanging over the mantle. It wasn’t a large room compared to Mark’s grandiose tall ceilings and excessive stonework, but it was certainly cozy and comfortable. 

Damien’s suit jacket hangs discarded on the back of his stiff armchair, his untied bow tie sticking out of one of the pockets. The sleeves of his bright white button down is rolled up to the elbows to expose pale forearms and smooth skin. The top button is undone, but he doesn’t remember unbuttoning it. He absently runs his fingers through his black hair, the carefully gelled style becoming undone without him realizing. The Mayor slowly nurses the half-filled glass in his hand with his right ankle crossed over his knee. He attempts to listen attentively to the Colonel’s intoxicated rambling but his focus is flighty and disorganized. Damien is dazed and pleasantly warm, but still sober enough to keep himself in check for the most part. 

William on the other hand is a mess.

He’s sprawled in a heap of muscular limbs on the plush fainting couch perpendicular to Damien. Most of his torso is draped over the armrest like a dramatic painting of a sophisticated Victorian woman. His left arm winds around the back of the couch while the rough and calloused fingers of right hand loosely wraps around his glass. The Colonel’s jacket sits in a crumbled pile on the floor and the balled-up cravat lay on the other side of the room where it was thrown. He’s left with a cream colored shirt with a starchy white collar and cuffs. Over it is a pair of button up suspenders in a blinding crimson, replacing the lurid ascot. William’s tan colored pants are tucked into shiny black rainboots that almost reach his knees. One of his legs dangle off the seat and the other lies horizontally across the entire chair, heel digging into it. Damien glares at the offensive footwear on his furniture but says nothing of it.

Music plays softly on the radio, but no one could hear it over the sound of William’s crying and nostalgic blabbering.

“ _Daaames_ , you rapscallion, you. Do y’remember when we were kids? And-and Celine and Mark, they were kids too! We’re all kids! An’ we terrorized the town playin’ pranks and making up games and the like: all the bestest of buddies, you know? Hangin’ ‘round together all the time? I basically lived in Mark’s house and all. We were like a… like one’a those gangs you help stop! Only shorter!” William rants, waving his arm at every exclamation for emphasis.

The recently refilled glass of amber liquid sloshes dangerously every time the Colonel gestures his hand. Before Damien could open his mouth to respond the Colonel starts talking again.

“But-but that’s not what’m trying to say, what I’m _trying_ to say is that...is that I miss it. ‘Cause those ol’ days were the best times of m’life! An’ now Celine and Mark are getting married and all that, so we don’ even talk anymore, not like we used to, you know?” William sobs sentimentally. 

The Colonel takes a sip of liquor, uncharacteristically solemn as he stares at the ceiling. 

The Mayor knows all too well.

* * *

Celine was Damien’s older twin sister by 10 minutes, a fact that she casually flaunted whenever she wanted to assert her superiority. Her dark hair was cropped fashionably short and her black dress and shawl gave her the appearance of maturity and poise. With a conniving smile and enigmatic gaze, she always looked like she knew more than she let on. This was probably true. Her clairvoyant talents and almost psychic skill to tell what people were thinking made her a successful spirit medium. She was a passionate force to be reckoned with compared to the Mayor’s chronically polite nature: a fiery red to Damien’s soft blue. 

When they were kids, she was the brains behind their quartet (or “gang”, as the Colonel called it). She planned all the pranks and adventures, as well as the quick escapes that came with it. William was, as one can imagine, energetic and loud and eccentric and always laughing, even with the numerous scuffles and injuries he got into. His presence brightened up a room, yet his talents lay more in entertainment with his imagination and knack for storytelling. And Mark played the role of leader. His house (manor, actually) was the base of their operations and he ultimately provided the food. He was always able to smooth-talk the group out of trouble and his charisma made it so everyone was comfortable talking to him, adults and peers alike. Damien inevitably played the role of mediator of William and Mark’s frequent arguments (they lived in the same house and were basically brothers after all), his diplomatic streak showing early on. Compared to the rest of the group, Damien was considerably more gentle and sympathetic, which made Celine instinctively protective of him (to Damien’s dismay). 

Celine and Mark were childhood sweethearts that had been on and off for the last three years before he proposed and finally pinned her down. Damien was surprised; freedom was one of Celine’s core values and settling down never seemed to be quite her style. The Mayor hadn’t seen his sister in a while, but the last time they spoke, she seemed to avoid the topic of her relationship entirely. She and Mark started planning their wedding recently, spurring Damien’s worry even more. And then there was also William’s secret that further complicated matters…

The Colonel was right. Damien missed the old days too, maybe more than William realized. Things were simpler back then. Now they’ve all changed in little ways, and not necessarily for the better. After half their group was paired off in “blessed matrimony”, William and Damien were, more or less, pushed aside. Even when they did meet together, the group dynamics were so skewed that the event became more of an awkward formality than it was enjoyable. It created a rift not only between friends but also between siblings. With Damien’s new job and Celine’s soon-to-be wedded bliss, the twins drew farther and farther apart. It was only a matter of time before either the Colonel or Mayor followed suit. Damien was scared. He knew that he was going to be the last one left.

* * *

“I remember, Will. I feel the same way,” the Mayor admits.

He fidgets with the glass in his hand. Damien passively eyes William’s glasses rather than the intoxicated travesty of a human, his eyesight going in and out of focus. It balances haphazardly on the edge of the end table and was on the verge of getting knocked down by the Colonel’s arm flailing. Damien takes a tentative sip.

“That’s good, that’s good. Another thing: I’ve been worried ‘bout Celine lately- you know I like Celine right? I looove Celine! She’s so smart and pretty and-and strong? Is that the word? That’s why I can’t talk to her anymore, ‘cause she likes Mark,” William murmurs wistfully. 

And there it was, the secret that the Colonel had been keeping for the past decade boiled down to three slurred sentences. Damien was already used to William doting on his sister, both when drunk and sober. He was the only one that was aware of the Colonel’s predicament: the awkwardness of it faded away after the first few times the man ran his mouth off about Damien's twin. Even so, the Mayor is always amazed at how convicted William was in his affection, declaring it with childlike simplicity. To him it was a mere statement of fact, not a vague confession of feeling. Damien knows it’s futile to try and convince his friend otherwise. He can only hope that things will work out in the end, taking a neutral stance to the whole affair and supporting the Colonel on a strictly emotional level. 

“B-but Mark, he’s been ignoring me and not even lettin’ her outta the house! I bet that scoundrel made her cry when he said she couldn’t go out dancin’ anymore ‘cause other guys would look at her an’ whatnot. She _loooves_ dancin’ almost as much as... as much as I do! An’ guess what, if any miscreant looks at her funny, I’ll slug ‘em until they can’t look at anything anymore. You know I’d die if I ever made Celine cry! Why, I ought’a fill Mark with lead! I’ll go to that bastard’s house right now, I-I’ll show him! _”_

The Colonel rolls off the couch and stands up violently, somehow not spilling his drink. The movement, however, knocks his glasses off the end table, exactly as Damien predicted. It falls softly onto the Persian rug and out of eyesight with a clatter, surprisingly unharmed. William doesn’t notice. He sways unintentionally and pats himself down repeatedly with his free hand as if he was looking for his gun. He frowns at the emptiness of his pockets. 

Damien’s head feels like cotton and he's on the verge of both laughing and breaking down in tears. Instead he closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, and sighs. The contact of his hand on his face seems foreign, but the familiar motion (especially in regards to the Colonel) steadies him.

“Will, no. He’s our friend. That’s murder. Celine will be upset if you kill him,” the Mayor stresses, making an effort to speak clearly.

William scrunches his nose up, raising his mustache up comically. 

“Right, right, you’re always right Damien.”

The Colonel sits back down. He miscalculates the distance and ends up sliding into a sitting position on the floor beside the Mayor’s legs. He leans against the fainting couch and drapes his free arm onto it as though that was what he intended to do all along. William raises the drink to his lips with an unsteady hand. He plans on taking just a taste of alcohol but ends up downing half the glass. The Mayor’s impulse to snicker and cry in sympathy hits stronger.

The crackling music on the radio plays softly in the comfortable silence. The lyrics barely register in Damien’s ears, but the tranquil melody of strings and rich tenor sounds like a lullaby. The Mayor feels his eyelids leaden in pleasant drowsiness. He pinches the skin on his thigh hard and straightens his posture. He doesn't want to sleep. 

Damien gazes to the side of the mirror above the mantle with glassy vision. In it, the whole room reflects in reverse. William’s image stares down at the drink in his hand with the wide-eyed amusement of a baby with a new toy, his tangled wave of dark hair fluffing from side to side as he tilts his head in interest. Damien then glances at his own reflection. His haggard double stares back at them with a look of pity and loathing. The Mayor briefly imagines how he would look while completely lacking color like a greyscale photograph with pale, ashen skin and his black suit ensemble: a newly embalmed corpse. He can’t help but notice the juxtaposition of his monochrome to the Colonel’s technicolor. In his intoxicated stupor, he wonders if it was possible to steal someone else’s color, glimpsing at William through the corners of his eyes. He ponders for a moment on whether or not it would help them forget the feeling of fear and worry. After all, it seems to work well for the Colonel. 

The Mayor shakes his head negatively, reprimanding himself for thinking something so absurd. He looks down at his watch. It takes a while for his vision to clear, but even then the clock face seems to sway and move on his wrist. It’s a little past three in the morning. And he still has work the next day. Damien waits for the cue to finally retreat upstairs.

William takes another gulp of liquor, his attention now diverted to the person sitting in front of them. He squints at the blurry black and white form. Without his glasses, the Colonel was basically blind. He blinks blearily in fascination. Half stumbling and half crawling on his knees, he moves closer to Damien, his drink held high up in his hand so as not to spill it. He sits at the Mayor’s feet, staring up at them in a fixed gaze as if in reverence.

“ _Celineee_? Is-is that you?”

That was the cue. 

Better to be Celine than Mark though. Damien places his drink on the end table. The Mayor then plucks the nearly empty glass out of William’s hand and sets it aside as well. He nearly knocks down the pile of books in the process and ends up balancing the expensive cups precariously on top of the stack.

“I didn’ finish that!” the Colonel whines, trying to reach for the drink futility.

“No more,” Damien insists, “You need rest.”

He fumbles with the jacket behind him, fishing into its pockets for a handkerchief. The Mayor’s arms feel heavy and lethargic as he withdraws his crisply folded pocket square. It was purely decorative and a brilliant white, yet he felt it was necessary to use. He wipes the tears and alcohol off the Colonel’s face, trying to be gentle but ending up roughly kneading his cheeks with the rough fabric. William continues to silently study Damien with wide eyes, obediently keeping still. The Mayor could see himself mirrored back in the chocolate brown pools. He looks away. He is painfully reminded of Celine doing the same thing for him, once upon a time.

Damien stops, stuffing the grimy cloth into his pocket. The Colonel is silent with reddened cheeks (both from the alcohol and from being violently scrubbed) and softly staring at the Mayor. Damien’s lips press into a tight frown. He dislikes the uncharacteristic quiet. That and the scar of constantly being mistaken for someone else hurt, even though he was familiar with it. 

The Mayor slowly rises to his feet, wincing at the vertigo and the room spinning around him. He grabs the back of the chair for support and tries to ignore the cloudy feeling in his head. William continues to sit on the floor with an unfocused look. Damien can’t help but make the comparison to a child. He outstretches a hand for the Colonel to take.

“Come. To bed with you.”

Damien’s voice sounds too soft in his ears, almost a whisper amid the fuzzy static in his skull. William takes the hand and is hauled upright. The force nearly knocks the Mayor backwards from the man’s weight. The Colonel wobbles on unsteady legs, unable to stand still without veering dangerously from one side to the other. Damien wraps one of William’s arms over his shoulders so he's partially supporting the Colonel up.

“ _Celineee_ , w-why’re you so nice? Honestly, you-you’re too good to me, really.” the Colonel sniffles.

Damien attempts to scoff but it comes out as a subdued sigh. If Celine were here, she would have left the drunken Colonel downstairs hours ago. He tries to sound sarcastic but end up sounding guilty.

“I know.”


	3. Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damien is on an emotional rollercoaster and he really wants to get off.

The two of them stumble their way through the living room bumping into the corners tables and chairs, stagger through a hallway or two, and lurch up the stairs to the bedrooms. At this point Damien is the one dragging William’s barely conscious body, trying not to let the heavy man slide to the floor. The Colonel continues to talk to “Celine” deliriously, gesticulating his one free hand in broad swinging motions. 

The Mayor accidentally hauls William into his room instead of the guest room adjacent to it, but at this point he's too fatigued to care. Damien pulls the neatly made covers open and sits the Colonel up on the bed. Somehow during the ordeal, one of William’s suspenders slipped off his shoulders, hanging loosely against his leg. Damien slides the other one off to maintain symmetry. Then he bends down and yanks the Colonel’s boots off, setting them neatly side by side.

“I don’t wanna!” William objects languidly.

Damien pointedly ignores him. He grabs the Colonel by the ankles and twists him so he’s laying down horizontally. Then he drapes the covers over William with the impression of finality.

“Go to sleep.”

“...Okay.”

The Colonel yawns and his eyes blink closed at the demand. His breathing slows to an even pace. Damien pulls the metal chain of the bedside lamp, the room becoming pitch black with a snapping sound.

“G’night Celine,” William murmurs, almost too quiet for the Mayor to hear.

Damien says nothing. Instead he tiptoes out of the dark room and follow the light of the open doorway. He closes the bedroom door behind him as quietly as possible with a faint click. The lightheaded feeling seems to intensify. He sinks to the ground, leaning his back against the wall for support.

* * *

So this was the end.

He had foreseen the inevitable for a long time now, but never had it felt so close. 

William and Mark were both stubborn men, and Celine an even more stubborn woman. And now the Colonel started believing that he had a chance and Mark was getting defensive and paranoid. There would be a showdown, a duel maybe, and Damien was positive that it could only end in blood and tears. He would lose his two closest friends, and more importantly his sister in the process. It didn’t matter who “won” and who “lost”. Because after all the hurt feelings, animosity, tension, and bad blood, it would be impossible for everyone to be on equal footing again. Damien will either get caught in the crossfire or everyone will naturally drift away and forget him. 

Damien would be alone.

He hugs his legs tight against his body and envelops an arm around his knees. Damien trembles all over at the building pressure crushing his chest and lungs. Nails dig painfully into his fisted palm at the alcohol-induced throbbing ache in his skull. People say to drink to forget your troubles, but it seems to make the Mayor remember them even more. He gasps for breath with his face contorted, trying to swallow down the compulsion to burst into tears. How pitiful, Damien wants to say, how pathetic.

Everything was spiraling out of control and all Damien could do was watch it all unfold. Why couldn’t anyone else see it? The last time William was inebriated, he thought Damien was Mark rather than Celine: he almost got shot. Damien had to wrestle the weapon out of the Colonel’s hand and was decently traumatized by the experience, only to find that William forgot everything that happened the next morning. Of course, the Mayor couldn’t just _tell_ him what had happened, nor every other time the Colonel mistook him for his twin. Ignorance is bliss, isn’t it? And who was he to deny his friend of that ignorance? Because what wouldn’t the Mayor do to lose his unbearably accurate sense of intuition?

So Damien helped in little ways, meeting with William at least every week--sometimes with liquor and sometimes without--and enjoying his company while musing on how blind he was to the whole affair. Maybe it was an escape, a greedy attempt at securing companionship before it was gone. Maybe it was a selfish need to feel like he was helping his friend because Celine and Mark were already too far from his reach: a fruitless shot at redemption. Or maybe it was because of the crippling, debilitating fear of being left alone and forgotten that was woven into the fabric of his being. It didn’t matter.

Damien clamps his hand over his mouth to muffle sounds of choking sobs escaping. He's shaking now, hunched over himself in a vain attempt to contain his wracking cries. He firmly shuts his watering eyes against the now too bright lamps lining the hallway, desperately wanting to calm down. Damien loses all ability to feel anything other than the dull pulsating waves of pressure in his head. All his thoughts scream in a cacophony of noise, making it impossible to think comprehensively.

He doesn't want to wake the Colonel. 

How could Damien let himself go this much? It wasn’t like him to cry, and quite frankly he wasn't liking the new development. He wants to blame it on the alcohol, but he knows he didn’t drink nearly enough to excuse his bout of neuroticism. Bemoaning his fate and wallowing in self pity like an emotional wreck? It’s disgusting. He's a simpering fool and a coward at that, Damien concludes.

That aside, the Mayor doubts that he would be able to look Mark, William, or his sister in the eye knowing what the future held. So if Celine lives in blissful matrimony with Mark, fine. And if she decides to run off with the Colonel, so be it. Damien wasn’t going to get in the way. All he had to do was enjoy the show and watch his closest friends and family tear each other apart in the name of “love”. If only it were that easy: the Mayor cared about them all too much to be that heartless. How recklessly human of them to naively hope everything would work out: short lived and short sighted.

Either way, he was going to lose. Because where did this leave Damien? Mildly intoxicated, sobbing on the floor in the fetal position, wearing a “Mayor” pin too big for him, and alone.

* * *

Damien looks as though nothing happened last night. The black suit complete with its pin and a fresh pocket square is back on and his hair is neatly gelled back again. Aside from the pounding headache, sleep deprivation, and general feeling of trepidation (which seemed to be the new normal for the Mayor nowadays), he feels no ill effects. He was awake long enough to adjust and recuperate after naturally waking up at 5am like clockwork (another habit instilled in them since childhood). The thick drapes are open and the house is bright with early morning light. The Mayor already picked up and cleaned the glasses and empty bottles, returning the living room to its original state. A packed black leather briefcase waits impatiently by the main entrance. Damien was in the process of mixing a drink when he hears heavy footsteps shuffle down the hall.

“‘Morning Damien!” the Colonel exclaims too loudly, breaking several hours worth of quiet with two words.

The sudden ringing in William's ears makes him cringe at his own volume. He tightly grips the entryway of the living room like he’s afraid of toppling over without it. William’s eyes squint at the harshness of the sunlight and from the blurriness of his vision; his glasses sat on the end table where Damien put them upon finding them that morning. His slept-in clothes are wrinkled and reek of alcohol, but at least his black boots somehow found themselves on the right feet. He doesn’t bother to wear his suspenders correctly however, and it hangs down loosely at the waist. There are random strands sticking out of his dark waves of tousled, unbrushed hair. Despite everything, Damien notices that the Colonel still has the same crooked grin and relentless energy, softening the effect of his unkempt appearance. 

“Good morning Will, you seem chipper. You’re usually not awake this early,” the Mayor muses, setting the newly made drink down on the center table. 

He prepares to aid the Colonel across the room, but he's too late; William’s already staggering there with an almost grim determination. He falls backwards onto the fainting couch with a hearty chuckle, propping his feet up on the table. All his bodily movements are sluggish, yet it seems to have no effect on his mouth nor his animated spiels at all.

“Carpe diem, as I always say! I’ve come to see you off! That and your alarm clock woke me up. You’ve got to imagine the look on my face when I woke up this morning and realized I was in your room! I must’ve moseyed over there last night by accident: sorry if I kicked you out of your own bed. Though I daresay your mattress is much more comfortable than the one in the guest bedroom!”

The Mayor smiles weakly, giving a neutral hum in response. He hovers over his chair as if debating whether to sit down or not. In the end he opts to stand, folding his arms over the top of the seat in an effort to look relaxed but with a subliminal sense of urgency. He knows that sitting down would mean getting sucked into the winding narrative of the Colonel’s conversation and being late to a meeting. 

William’s attention already shifts to his spectacles on the end table. His eyes light up at the sight of the familiar object. He grabs them with flair and puts them on with a triumphant beam. 

“Without these, I reckon you’re a splitting image of Celine! Or Celine’s a splitting image of you? I’m a blind old coot, so you both look like blurs of black and white. But you have broader shoulders when you’re wearing the suit and well, you know, Celine’s Celine: she’ll make sure you remember her,” the Colonel says offhandedly with a laugh.

The Mayor freezes. His hands tightly grip his forearms and his eyes are shocked open. He can hear blood rushing through his ears and feel his jaw clench unconsciously. 

Finally regaining his eyesight, William notices. Warm brown eyes through the circle lenses of glass look up at the Mayor softly. They see right through Damien: it hurts.

“Damien, are you alright? What’s eating you? Is it what I said? Sorry, that was a little insensitive, wasn’t it. Though I’ll have you know that you’re swell in your own right; you’re the Mayor for Christ’s sake!” the Colonel consoles in earnest.

The Mayor forces a tight-lipped smile, mentally urging himself to relax. His heart aches in his chest with the familiar weight of guilt.

“It’s nothing, forget about it. But thank you for the compliment anyways,” Damien assures, taking the tall glass of cloudy liquid from the table and carefully handing it to William: a perfect segue into a different topic. “Here, drink this. I trust that you remember the concoction I learnt from my university days?”

As the Mayor says, the Colonel forgets about it and doesn’t press for details. The glass is chilled, but not cold enough to condensate in his hands. The foggy translucent drink crackles faintly from the popping of the seltzer bubbles. William takes out the long metal spoon from the cup and pops it into his mouth to dry it, savoring the sweet taste of the carbonated liquid. He then pulls it out and uses it to further dramatize his languid arm motions like a conductor of an orchestra.

“I’ll be damned if I didn’t! I _do_ feel out of sorts, I don’t know if you can tell. I’ve gotten quite used to this funny feeling in my head and you know, pain in general. I can barely feel my limbs at this point! Many thanks for the drinks: this one and the many last night!” William toasts, raising his glass in the air towards Damien.

The Colonel guzzles down most of the beverage to quench his thirst (alcohol, after all, is a dehydrating agent) and then sighs in content. He was about to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand when the Mayor whips out his pocket square and passes it to Willam, insistent. The Colonel takes it with a raised eyebrow and dabs at his mouth and somewhat saturated stache. He gets the feeling of déjà vu. 

“It was my pleasure. You’re welcome to stay awhile or I can arrange for someone to escort you elsewhere, should it please you. If you’ll excuse me, I must be going now,” Damien says tersely, as if it was rehearsed.

He checks his watch impatiently for good measure. The Colonel groans, pointing an accusatory spoon at the Mayor.

“There it is, you’re doing it again, being all formal with me and such. Would you rather I excuse you and call you Mr. Mayor?” William drawls lethargically in exasperation. Judging from Damien’s lack of response, the Colonel adds pointedly, “I’d rather you didn’t answer that.”

The Mayor looks down and away, not replying. William sighs and attempts to lighten the mood.

“And you’d best remember that it’s ‘Will’, not ‘William’, you hear? I swear, if you call me ‘Colonel’ the next time I come, I just might take offense to you trying to push me away or something, eh?” he jokes wryly, mock-threatening Damien with the spoon. He takes another swig of the bubbly drink.

So much for the Mayor’s attempt to emotionally distance himself. He's conflicted between wanting to grab onto his remaining friend like a lifeline and savoring whatever moments they had left versus trying to put more space between them so he doesn’t feel as devastated later on. But never did Damien stop to consider how the Colonel himself would feel about the whole thing. Because in a way, he was losing Mark and Celine too.

“I’m sorry Will,” the Mayor utters, trying to sound sarcastic. 

He ends up sounding remorseful and grim, as if he was apologizing for a million other things and not just a simple misnaming. Damien wrings his hands together, not trusting himself to make eye contact. The Colonel immediately sets the glass down and trips his way to the Mayor’s side. He places his hands on top of Damien’s, making him stop his nervous habit and look up at William. 

“No! No, no, no, no, no... Don’t _apologize,_ my friend, especially not to the likes of me. I don’t want to hear any more apologies coming out of your mouth unless you actually did something that needs apologizing for, understand?” 

Damien nods slowly, unable to speak. The twisting, wrenching feeling in his stomach returns, and with it a looming sense of unease and worry. The Mayor hates his display of vulnerability. Seeing the Colonel serious and worried is jarring enough, but having him fussing over Damien feels even worse. _He_ was supposed to be the worried one, not William.

“Good, good, now you’re free to go! And don’t you worry about me, I’ll find my way around and be out of your hair when you get back. Maybe I’ll sneak a visit to Celine once I feel up to it,” the Colonel guffaws, patting Damien’s arm in a comforting manner.

The Mayor makes a nervous goodbye and a hasty exit. 

He grabs his briefcase and briskly walks through the foyer, passing the large mirror on the side wall. The Mayor doesn’t spare a glance at it and focuses on the front door straight ahead. However, in his peripheral vision he can still see the general color and outline of his reflection. There’s the monochromatic outfit and neatly gelled back hair, as usual. And maybe it was just a trick of the light or from lack of sleep or even the lingering psychological effects of all that liquor last night. But for the split second that Damien walks past the mirror, he notices that his skin looks like a pale, ashen grey.

**Author's Note:**

> Funny thing I noticed when rewatching WKM: Damien never calls William by name, only "Colonel", but calls Celine and Mark by name. William says in the beginning that "my friends call me the Colonel" and near the end "only my friends get to call me the Colonel!" Also, when Damien and William were pointing fingers at who they thought were the murderer, Damien and William rule each other out as the suspects. Conclusion: the homies be tight.  
> Another thing I noticed: why does Actor Mark have a crib in his room?!? Mark Edward Fischbach, what are you trying to imply?


End file.
